


A Haunting in Ashwood

by RockSaltandCherryPie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dry Humping, Ghosts, Hurt!Sam, Lucid Dreaming, M/M, Nightmares, Plotty, Possession, Pre-Series, Rating: NC17, Rutting, Sibling Incest, Wincest - Freeform, a story for fall, abusive content, comforting!dean, dead girl - Freeform, handjob, sam and dean's first solo case?, small town murder, wet dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-11-22
Packaged: 2018-02-16 09:53:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2265282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RockSaltandCherryPie/pseuds/RockSaltandCherryPie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's been a mysterious murder in Ashwood, OR. and residents say they still see the ghost of Liza Stephens down by the lake sometimes. John lets the boys take this case on their own for the first time while he tends to other business in the small town.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Welcome to Ashwood

**Author's Note:**

> This is my new series that's going to keep me occupied this fall semester (on buses, on breaks and at cafes, essentially). I'm not entirely sure how long it'll be yet, but there will be more Wincest in there, you can count on that (would I really write a story without it?)  
> It's kind of my homage to Twin Peaks, small towns and secrets and murder and coffee. Plus Winchesters. Cause nothing's better than that, really.  
> Enjoy the first chapter :)

Sam tosses and turns, covers strewn around him like an angry sea. It's the dreams he won't tell Dean about. The dreams that began three years ago when he was eleven years old.

"Don't go," he told Dean once, on a night like tonight where Dad left them for a while and the air was heavy and the slatted motel blinds made lines of shadows across the wall. "I've got a bad feeling." He was sleepy, floppy kid hair rich-wet with his own kind of fear, probably had absolutely no idea what he was talking about, but Dean still cancelled his plans that night simply on Sam's plea.

Dean knows he's still haunted by them once in a while. He hears him in the middle of the night sometimes, whimpering, and he cannot stop it with a cool cloth or a back rub.

Sam's not a kid anymore. He's at the age where people start to pay attention to him wherever he goes because he actually has important things to say. He's even started making friends at the school-of-the-month, the girl kind, started caring too much about looking weird or dumb. His neck and legs and arms are too long for his body which has sprouted up like a weed, his voice changes octaves practically every syllable. And there's nothing Dean can do to stop the temper-tantrum-of-the-week he throws at Dad (who's given him more slack than Dean ever remembers getting at that age), they're inevitable, just like the _other_ dreams Sam starts having.

The more Dean looks over across the dark and silent motel room at Sam's bed, the more he realizes it's no nightmare that's making his brow crease and his legs idly twitch.

Sam tugs at the sheets, fists clenching and unclenching, a new kind of sweat making his half-naked body glow like a distant star in the blackness of the room. Dean's sinking deep into the empty space, watching with unblinking eyes as the force of Sam's body twists around on the bed. He grows between his legs, sharp scent of blossoming arousal reaching Dean even in the darkness. The scratch of sheets almost masks the soft sighs and mewls Sam's making but not quite, they're just loud enough for Dean to catch every now and then and he wants to cringe and look away but he doesn't.

Dean wonders about Sam's dreams, wants to poke around in there and see the object of teenage lust, dangerous curves and pretty beckoning smiles, the things Dean fell victim to immediately, without any thought. Things that steal away the purity of youth and continue to taunt and tease and entice throughout a man's adult life. That isn't Sam, Sam's supposed to be different, be good.

Dean watches him wake with a gasp and a rush, he looks confused. His fingers pluck at the band of his shorts and look inside. They gather something and come back up sticky and wet. He starts to look over across the room but Dean shuts his eyes in time. When it's safe, Dean opens them again and notices Sam's turned his head away and is trying to fall back asleep. His wet hand rests on his flat unblemished stomach. He doesn't even pull the sheets up to hide what he's done. He isn't ashamed. Dean finds it impossible to sleep.

 

xxx

 

Dad finishes up his job and returns to the motel the next morning, carrying two coffees and three muffins in bags. They sit and talk about where the job'll take them next, there's something in Ashwood, Oregon that smells like a haunting. A girl was brutally murdered and locals say they still see her around, lingering. She hasn't harmed anyone yet, so Dad suggests Dean take this case with Sammy while he meets up with an old friend to discuss new research or something.

 

Ashwood's a long, three-day drive up winding roads and endless, dull highways. The Impala passes a sign that says _Welcome to Ashwood: Population: 1432_ and travels down the narrow asphalt lined on both sides by orange-dusted trees. The town ahead looks vaguely ominous, hazy mid-October fog rolling over distant mountaintops and mirroring peaks.

Dean follows Dad's pickup into town as they pass old shops and diners that look like they're frozen in time. Sammy glances out of the window and seems to stare at something as they pass.

"What is it?" Dean asks. Sam's shoulders slump as he looks forward again. "This town giving you the creeps already?"

"I thought I saw..." Sam chews on his lip. "Nevermind..."

 

xxx

 

Lodging is supplied to them courtesy of Dad's old friend Pete. It's a quaint cabin-resort, apparently Pete owns the place with his brother. Plaid-garbed guests drinking coffee in the lounge look up at them as they walk in, the place is oddly silent except for the occasional clink of spoons on ceramic. Pete checks them in and they have to take three flights of stairs to their room. It's one room, but it's fairly large. Two beds — one king and one double, each topped with a quilt that looks like thanksgiving, all nauseating orange and red and yellow to match the room's wooden walls and floors. Everything's color-schemed like autumn leaves, right down to the lampshades.

John slings his heavy duffle on the king bed and it's like someone took a big black stone and tossed it in a lake at the crack of dawn. He digs inside of it and retrieves his brown, leather-bound journal. Concealing it in his inside coat pocket, he tells his sons he'll be in the lobby discussing things with Pete, and that Dean should know what to do about the dead girl. Been on enough hunts with Dad to know how they went.

After Dad leaves, Sam sinks down on the edge of the bed and looks up at Dean with wide, expectant eyes.

"Right," Dean says, and shifts his weight on his heels. He _should_ know what to do. He's eighteen. Has been wasting nasty sons of bitches since he got his first pimple but it seems sudden for Dad to take off without giving him any leads first. He looks over the article again and pretends to read it. "So..."

"Should we go talk to the witnesses?" Sam says, and Dean folds the article up and says "yep" like he was planning on saying that all along.

 

xxx

 

Turns out they aren't taken seriously as a pair of questionable-looking kids asking about homicide and ghost sightings, so they don't have much luck with the older citizens. Especially since most of the residents already spoke with the police and detectives. Dean starts to say to Sammy that their job isn't solving murders, their job is getting rid of anything supernatural. Sam insists the two are related here, though.

So they change tactics. It's the younger locals, the ones that are around Dean's age that were friends with the victim that open up to them. They pretend they're student interns in journalism from a neighboring town and it makes it a heck of a lot easier to get firsthand information.

 

They're sitting at a diner where one of the locals works, pretty young girl named Terry. Dean gets her to sit with them on her break.

Sam switches sides of the booth and sips on a milkshake. His long legs keep knocking Dean's under the table, Dean bumps him hard with his own to get him to cut it out but Sam looks like he has no idea what's going on.

"So, what can you tell us about Liza?" Dean asks the waitress, she's folding the napkin nervously in front of her, apron splayed and disregarded on the seat. She's cute, straight nose and doe eyes and if she wasn't so distressed Dean'd think about asking her what she's doing after her shift.

"She was a good girl," she's saying, locks of chestnut hair bouncing as she nods. "A really great friend."

"Could you think of anyone that would want to hurt Liza?" Sam asks, more concern in his voice than Dean's ever been able to muster with Dad. He's not even entirely sure Sam's faking it, but whatever he's doing, it's working. The girl, Terry, she's going on about how everybody loved Liza, she was everyone's friend. Sam asks if she could recall any recent arguments or disagreements Liza got into, he's really a natural at this, but then she gets really quiet and her eyes drop.

"What is it, Terry?" Sam asks.

"Nothing," she's shaking her head and feigning a smile. "Everybody loved Liza."

Sam exchanges a look with Dean.

"You told the paper you felt Liza was still here. Can you tell us a bit about that?" Dean asks.

Terry clears her throat. "It was stupid of me to explain myself to the reporter like that. He thought I was crazy." Her eyes begin to water and her voice falters.

Sam puts his elbows on the table, brown arms bending and long fingers gently tapping. "Terry, we won't think you're crazy."

Her wide, dewy eyes focus on Sam and she swallows. "At first, I heard things. Like on my way to school. I heard — what I thought was — what sounded like — Liza's voice. Calling my name. But then..." she stumbles over her words and sniffles, hands clasped tight. "I actually _saw_ her. Standing down by the lake. Everyone who doesn't think I'm crazy says I was just seeing things, but I _know_ what I saw. Anyway, you don't have to believe me. But I'm not the only one."

"Who else saw her?" Dean asks, getting out a pad and paper because Dad always takes notes while people are talking.

"Our friend, Sarah. Sarah Barclay."

Dean scribbles down the name and asks where they could find her. She gives them an address.

"Did Liza try to talk to you, or communicate with you in any way?" Sam asks gently.

She shakes her head. "No... that was it."

 

They don't press any further, Dean pays the bill and they leave the diner.

"Well, she's not hiding anything," Dean notes sarcastically as they walk to the car.

"She has been through a lot, Dean," Sam's saying as they get in. "And we're still just strangers."

"Should we go talk to Sarah?" Dean suggests, one hand on the wheel, ready to go. Sam just gives him a small shrug.

"What?" Dean asks incredulously.

"Well, don't you think we should talk to the victim's family?" Sam's slumped on the leather seat, hands fidgeting in his lap.

They seem to be at odds with each other more when Dad's not around. It's starting to get under Dean's skin. "Sam, we have some leads on the spirit. You know, the _reason we're here?_ If you want to go talk to the victim's family and try to solve her murder, Nancy Drew, be my guest. But that's not why we're here. That's not what Dad wants us to do. We're here to lay a spirit to rest because that's what we do."

Sam raises his voice over Dean's. "But how can we do that without knowing what happened first? I mean, there's gotta be a reason why she hasn't moved on, right?!"

"Yeah, but who cares?"

"I do!"

Dean sighs. "Sam, we're here to do a job, not play detective."

Sam opens the car door in a huff and gets out. Dean follows immediately.

"What the hell?" Dean starts to say, but Sam interrupts him.

"I'm going to talk to Liza's family," he says simply.

Dean murmurs _'course you are_ under his breath.

"I'll meet you back at the lodge," he says and starts to walk away in the opposite direction.

"Sam, you aren't going anywhere alone," Dean asserts, coming around the car, ready to follow him if need be.

"I'm fourteen years old," Sam stands there, five-foot-four in a jacket that's too big for him, and shrugs. "I'm not a kid anymore." He starts to walk away again and Dean feels something like a tug swelling in his chest.

"Sam, wait."

Sam looks back, big eyes curling upward, hands shoved in large pockets.

"Be careful," Dean almost stutters on the words because he knows he's going against Dad's whole plan here, he wanted them to work _together_ on this, but Sam's right, as usual. He may be a dorky pain-in-the-ass but on occasion he made fair points. Dean sure as hell can't control the kid, never could. Not when he gets in these moods.

 

xxx

 

It isn't that hard to find the house where Liza lived. Her mother Georgia and step-father still live there, apparently they're well-known throughout the small town (which is seeming more and more like a tight-knit community). Sam gives Georgia the same spiel about being a student journalist and she reluctantly lets him in.

The Stephens home is the kind of place you never walk into with shoes on. Clean carpets, floral drapes, perfectly placed picture frames of happy days on the mantel. Sam's almost reluctant to sit on the couch, like he's nervous he'll dirty up the lace throw that lays across the backrest, but she offers him tea out of a ceramic pot that was already steaming and he takes a seat.

He asks her about Liza and she takes a sip of tea. Her husband Daniel, Liza's step-father, stands behind her but doesn't say a word.

She's got too much makeup on. Clumpy mascara and a blush that's way too pink to look at all natural. Her blonde hair is styled neatly and bobs when she speaks. Sam asks about what kind of friends Liza had, if she could have made any enemies and Georgia explains in great depth about a boyfriend Liza had. She says he was the overprotective type, and was real upset when Liza called it off.

Sam starts to ask Daniel a question but he walks off.

"Sorry, dear, he's not up to discussing our Liza's death so soon."

"I understand." Sam doesn't finish his tea. He's left with a bitter taste in his mouth as he exits the Stephens home.

 

He walks back to the lodge on the other side of town, which isn't far at all, just off the main road and up a hill. He passes old shops, antiques and fishing supplies and hardware, a few of the locals give him the stare down and it makes him walk a little faster. He stops dead in his tracks a little further up the hill and sees her. This time there could be no mistake. She's pale blue, locks of long auburn hair spiral to her shoulders, she's wearing a dull nightgown and she just _stands_ there, staring at him by the telephone pole. He freezes, chills run up and down his body like a swarm of insects and his knees begin to twitch. A fog rolls up around her and then he blinks the water from his eyes and she's gone. It takes him a minute or two before he starts walking again, and he doesn't know why but he holds his breath when he passes the telephone pole.

 

xxx

 

The scent of coffee and burning wood wafts into his nose as Sam enters the lodge. Dean's sitting in the lobby with Dad at one of the tables. Dean looks up first when he notices Sam come in, then Dad spins around in his chair and shakes his head. He's preparing for the scolding he knows Dad'll give him before he even sits down.

"What were you thinking, boy?" Dad asks, trying to keep his voice at a neutral tone so as not to disrupt the other guests reading newspapers and stirring their hot beverages.

Sam looks at Dean whose eyes drop to the table.

"You know you aren't supposed to leave your brother. You two stay together, especially while on a case. You aren't old enough yet to—"

"Just thought we could cover more ground if we split up."

Dad searches for words. "I don't care what you thought. I wouldn't have put you two on this case if I thought you'd go off on your own like that."

"Okay," he replies simply, and it only seems to aggravate their father more.

"I already spoke with Dean about this. He should have never let you go off on your own. Well, now he knows. And this won't happen again."

Dean's still eyeing a speck on the table.

"Do you wanna know what I found out or not?" Sam tries to change the subject.

"What did you find out, Sam?" Dad's less than unimpressed, but it's easy for him to switch back into business mode at the drop of a dime.

Sam explains how Mrs. Stephens mentioned a clingy ex, and how their next move should be to talk to him. He leaves out the bit about seeing Liza on his little walk back, however. Dean exchanges with them the information he gathered from Sarah and it's just that she saw a figure that looked like Liza, by the lake, same as Terry. Only they both saw her on separate occasions.

It's only when Dad leaves them to talk with Pete again that Sam huddles over the table and leans in, keeping his voice low.

"I saw her, Dean."

Dean does that eyebrow thing he likes to do when he's confused. "Who?"

"Liza. She was just... on the sidewalk... _staring_ at me."

"What? What happened? Did she touch you?" Dean starts inspecting Sam's clothes.

"No! She was just there and then she disappeared. She didn't look like she wanted to hurt me."

"She's a ghost, Sam. Of course she wanted to hurt you."

Sam shakes his head because he knows that's not true. Restless spirits can have all kinds of motives for why they're still hanging around. Some of them are just sad. Some of them just want to be put to rest. To _justice_.

"Not this time. I'm telling you, Dean. If she wanted to harm me she would have."

Dean just runs his fingers through his hair and eyes Dad over by the front desk. Sam touches Dean's hand.

"Trust me. Look, Dean. This is _our_ case. Forget about Dad for a second."

Dean contemplates, licking his lips. Their eyes lock and Sam knows he must've gotten through to him, at least a little bit.

"We can do this."

 

xxx

 

Dean never understood why Dad got the king-sized bed if he was just one guy and he and Sam had to share the double all the time. It didn't make any sense. But they're the kids so they can't argue.

Dad's already snoring by the time Dean crawls in next to Sam, the room looks and feels a hell of a lot colder with all of the lights off. He feels Sam's warmth under the covers on his bare legs and it makes the tiny hairs on his body stand up.

He wants to think Dad was right, but he's torn somewhere in the middle of thinking Sam's too young to be on his own and thinking Sam's old enough to make his own decisions. It's like Sam just woke up one morning and decided to start thinking for himself and Dean's the only one who seemed to take notice. Either that or Dad's still pretending like nothing's changed.

Dean's body's unsettled even though it's the first time in days he's actually in a bed, Sam has long since fallen asleep and his cold toes keep brushing Dean's legs as he turns over numerous times.

 

It feels like minutes have passed when Dean wakes out of sleep to Sam's soft whimpering, but the clock reads 3:10 AM. Dean's head turns on the pillow, Sam's glistening with a sheen coating of sweat, the same kind as a few night ago, and he's thrown the covers off. Dean feels the waves of heat coming off Sam's body as he twitches and jerks, watches the line of his brow crease in distress. He considers waking him, but his curiosity prohibits it.

Sam's mouth parts on a soft mewl and Dean's eyes travel downwards. A hard and impressive jut of teenage arousal pushes up under confining boxers, thick and growing with every contortion of Sam's hips making slow circles on the bed. Dean swallows down a thick lump in his throat just before Sam pushes up next to Dean, crowding him and rubbing his forehead against his shoulder. Dean breathes in Sam's hair, heady-warm scent of sweat and sleep and he can't look away from what's happening between those spread legs.

Sam's whines get muffled when he smears his face along Dean's t-shirt, warm breath and saliva seeping through the cotton. He fists the sheets beside him before wet splotches slowly darken his boxers, taking on shapes like an inkblot test. The splotch grows and grows until Sam takes in a sharp breath and Dean feels his eyes opening against his shoulder. Sam looks down, at what he's done, and shaky hands slowly pull the sheets back up again. He tests to see if Dean's awake and this time Dean doesn't bother faking it. Flitting eyes meet for a loaded millisecond before Sam turns on his side, his back to Dean, trying to get as far as humanly possible while still sharing a double. Dean lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and closes his eyes. It doesn't take him long to fall asleep this time.


	2. Swimming with Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's supernatural sensitivity causes him to see Liza's ghost. He's convinced she's trying to communicate.  
> Dean starts staring at Sam in new ways.

Sam doesn't want to get out of bed in the morning, and it's certainly a first that Dean's up before him, but no surprise that Dad's nowhere to be seen.

"Up and at em', kiddo. We got a ghost that needs passage to the afterlife and all that jazz."

Dean's acting like the horrors of last night never happened, and Sam's grateful for the most part. He'd rather sit in a hole and be picked at by flesh-eating insects than talk about him soiling his pants like a three-year-old. He still feels it, crusted dry down there and when he gets up the fabric clings to his skin and itches and chafes. He hopes Dean doesn't notice how fast he shuts himself in the bathroom, turning the water on and stripping off his underwear. He gets under the hot stream and he can smell it, even over the scent of the bar soap that slides in suds down his body, the clean sweet-scent on his fingers of something that came from deep inside of him.

 

Breakfast is served on the main level of the lodge, just a small area behind the lobby with bright windows that let in just the right amount of sun through patterned curtains. The view is pine trees for miles, and beyond that, the sun sits in between snow-tipped peaks like a huge golden egg yolk.

Dean orders a coffee and a hearty meal but all Sam wants is cereal. It takes no time at all before the waitress comes back with two trays and serves it to them hot and fresh. Sam steals a piece of bacon from Dean's plate.

"Okay, so, move number one—" Dean starts with a mouthful of waffle.

"Well, technically, it'd be like, move number..." (Sam counts on his fingers) "Four."

Dean makes a sour face. "'Scuse me, smartass. Move number one _today_ is to talk to psycho ex-boyfriend. Did you get a name? Please tell me you got a name."

"Brian," Sam nods, chewing on the bacon. "Brian McGillan."

"What about an address?"

"You know it's surprising how many of Ashwood's citizens are willing to hand out addresses to complete strangers," Sam remarks, and they finish their breakfast and head out. They don't bother wasting time trying to figure out where their father is anymore, he does his own thing and in this town apparently he's letting them do their own thing.

 

Dean points out that the town looks more dead than usual, no cars parked in front of the shops or breakfast places, not even any of the locals sitting on steps conversing with each other. The Impala rumbles down Woodland Drive, they find house number thirty and park in front.

Dean wraps his knuckles on the front door a few times, but there's no car in the drive. Nobody's home. Sam starts to walk back to the Impala but Dean doesn't follow.

"Dean?" Sam spins around. Dean's creeping behind the house, finding the little latch on the back gate and unlocking it too easily. He gestures for Sam to come on and then he disappears. Sam eyes the car once before huffing and following Dean behind the house.

"What the hell?" Sam watches Dean, he's got his arms stretched way up and he's feeling around one of the windows.

"Think Brian'll have something worth hiding?" Dean cocks an eyebrow as he unhinges the lock with a tool he's fabricated out of thin air.

"We're actually breaking in?" Sam gapes, then watches Dean give a little jump as his top half climbs through the window.

Once he's in, he grins at him from inside. "Come on, Sammy, quit acting like this is your first rodeo."

Sure, they broke the law at least twice on any given morning, but credit card fraud was one thing, and impersonating federal agents was another, but breaking and entering... was... well, a whole new level of criminal. He gives Dean a face but Dean extends his arms out the window to help him up. He grabs on and Dean hoists him inside. They almost topple over, but Dean supports Sam under his shoulders.

"This is twisted, Dean. Even for us."

" _You're_ twisted," Dean mumbles as he surveys the room. It's a young man's bedroom, notably disarrayed with a double bed right in the middle, covers thrown everywhere, and a desk by the door where a computer screen displays gradually mutating shapes. Dean idly walks around and fingers various papers littering the desk. He picks one up and inspects it. Sam shifts on his feet and looks around but doesn't touch anything.

"Hey, check this out," Dean says, and Sam hovers beside him.

The paper has scribbled hand-writing all over it, the words _Liza, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, Liza_ over and over and over.

Dean lays the paper back down and opens one of the desk drawers. A pink journal sits right on top. Dean picks it up and turns it over a few times in his hand.

"How much you wanna bet this doesn't belong to Brian?" Dean smirks and opens it up.

Sam leans in and watches as Dean flips through the pages. They're dated journal entries, each neatly organized and written in clean, consistent handwriting. Dean stops on one of the pages and reads it aloud.

_Told Brian I didn't have the same feelings for him anymore._

And another, a few entries down, _Brian doesn't know the real reason why I called it off. I don't want him to. He wouldn't understand._

Dean makes a face a stuffs the journal in the back of his jeans.

"Let's get outta here," Sam says after shaking his head.

 

xxx

 

Turns out the majority of Ashwood was attending a council at the Town Hall for Liza's death. They catch the end of it but Dad's there and he comes out, wondering where the hell they were. Dean tries to justify their illegal investigation but Dad's unimpressed when he realizes the only lead Dean's unearthed is a dead girl's diary. Apparently the council meeting was organized by Daniel, Liza's stepfather, to discuss the police department's updates. Dad thinks it was held primarily to appease the distressed locals who've been sleeping with one eye opened ever since the shocking discovery.

Dad says the police will do their job and they'll do theirs. He's trying to teach them that they each have a role to play in this investigation. They agree to everything their Dad instructs with a "yes, sir" and then he leaves them to run a few "errands," saying he'll meet them back at the lodge later tonight.

"So... What now?" Sam asks, looking up at Dean.

Dean puts his hands in his pockets. "I figure we go check out the place where everyone seems to be spotting Liza's ghost."

"The lake," they both say at the same time.

 

xxx

 

There's a fog over the water, eerie pale clouds just hovering and slowly twisting; the lake's a dead green murk, it's a lot cooler down here and Sam shivers. Dean's calling out "here, ghostie ghostie ghostie," his voice sounds disruptive in the air even though they're outside. Dean carries the small leather pouch he keeps rocksalt in, ready to repel the spirit if he needs to. Sam doesn't think he will. He's not sure why but he knows Liza isn't dangerous.

Sam steps closer to the water. It gently laps over the rocks and over the soles of his boots, he looks out over the water and then down. He sees something, a little bit deeper in, something that looks like a pale splotch just floating beneath the surface, and he squints. The splotch moves and it's a body. Then, a face and flowing, red hair. His eyes widen and a hand slaps on his shoulder. Sam gasps and jerks around; Dean almost looks as frightened as he does.

"What?? What is it?" Dean asks.

Sam's head whips back around and the figure is gone. The water is still. "I thought I saw..." Sam walks deeper in until the water's at his thighs. He hears Dean calling him, telling him to get out, but he shuts it out. His body's moving on its own, some strange magnetism pulling him in. He sees a glimpse of hair under the water again, and then, two large eyes stare up at him through the shattered surface. He doesn't have time to hold his breath. He gets pulled under by a strong force, it holds him there and the water's like ice. He tries to pull himself out but he has no strength or control. He opens his eyes briefly and all he sees is foggy green and specks floating around and his own limbs thrashing and struggling. He's frozen in body and mind but he's able to briefly think about death before he hears a voice that's a thousand different pitches at once, like nails on a chalkboard. It says _not him_ once, takes its time saying it, too, and then someone's finally pulling him out.

Sam takes in a huge breath as strong hands support him from all over, he leans into them and holds on and shakes uncontrollably for what feels like forever.

 

xxx

 

They're back at the lodge. Dean wrapped Sam in the flannel blanket they usually keep in the back of the Impala, his hair's still damp and he's still shivering. He holds a steaming mug of tea that the waitress from this morning brought him. If only the stubborn kid listened to him when Dean told him not to go out in the water, none of this would have ever happened.

A few of the other guests, including an abnormally tall police officer named Hamilton are sitting around him on couches and chairs, asking him things. Dean and Dad have taught him well because Sam claims he got pulled under by a large fish and no one questions it. As far as they know, Sam and Dean are just two kids here with their dad on a fishing trip. Hamilton parts after giving them his contact information in case they "see anything suspicious."

Sam tugs the blanket over his shoulder.

"You wanna tell me what really happened now?" Dean asks after everyone's left them.

Sam's eyes widen as he looks up at Dean. "It was Liza."

"Yeah, I figured as much. How do you know? What did she do?"

After Sam takes a sip of tea, he starts explaining. "At first, I saw her in the water... red hair... in her pale nightgown... her lips were blue. Then I walked deeper and she pulled me under. It was like this... strong force. I can't explain it."

"It's exactly what I told you. Ghosts don't care about anything other than harming the living where they can. They have a one-track mind. A one-track _dead_ mind."

"No, Dean," Sam still argues. His small hands grip the mug tighter as he shakes his head.

"No?" Dean can't believe what he's hearing after everything that just happened.

"She... she _said something_ to me."

"...What?"

"She said _not him_. Clear as day."

An unsettling sensation sits at the bottom of Dean's stomach, he shifts a little on the couch because if Sam's telling the truth, there's a chance their case just got a little more complicated, and that Sam's been in the right the whole time.

"I don't know, do you think... do you think maybe she's... trying to help us solve her own murder?" Sam asks, confusion and fear curling his brows in. "I mean... do you think she's _watching_ us somehow?"

"I don't know, Sam! I don't know, okay?" A few of the guests glance back at them and Dean looks around. "Let's go up to our room, k? Come on."

 

Sam plops down on the edge of the bed, waiting for Dean to continue. Dean shuts the door and runs a hand through his hair.

"Sam, I don't know what's going on," he starts, trying to compose his voice. "But Dad was right. We have to let the police do their job and we'll do ours. We have to find her bones and torch them." Dean _knows_ how wrong he is in saying this, he can _feel_ what Sam's going to say next because Sam's always _right_ nowadays.

"That's bullshit, Dean! And you know it!"

(He can also read him like a book)

"Sam..."

"No!" Sam stands, the blanket lays disregarded on the bed. "We're _in this_ now. Whether you like it or not. Liza's trying to tell us something." He stops, looking away briefly. "...tell _me_ something... And I have to help her, Dean."

Sam's floppy brown hair is still wet. It hangs in front of his face and he's blinking it away. He looks more pale than usual, his lips a purply blue.

"Damn it, Sam. Why do you have to be so stubborn all the time? Why can't you just do as your told?"

Sam gapes, his mouth parting a little. His eyes start to water but he's trying to hide it, fists clenched. "I knew that's what this was about. Dean, I've been doing _as I'm told_ my whole life! Following Dad around, following _you_ around. And it's because you're my brother. And I _trust you._ Now I'm asking you, _please,_ trust me."

And he does. Dean trusts Sammy more than any other person in the world. More than Dad. He'd just never admit that. Sam waits.

"Okay," Dean says simply, and Sam's thin shoulders relax.

"Thank you," he says.

"But we're not going anywhere tonight," Dean changes the subject. "You have to wash off all that lake gunk. You stink."

Sam actually smiles then, face softening, and he heads towards the bathroom. "Yeah, you're right."

Dean pulls the pink journal from the back of his jeans and tosses it on the bed. He hears the water start up in the other room. The door's left open just a crack, enough for Dean to look over his shoulder and notice the unveiling of fresh and pale skin, damp clothes shedding and falling to the floor. A foot as two socks come off, brown mop of hair, then the curve of a lower back, lean hips and finally the shadowy crease that travels in a line from his spine all the way between his thighs and Dean quickly looks away. A heat travels from his cheeks and bleeds down to his chest and finally ends at his groin, he feels a heavy sensation start to grow. He swallows and steadies his breathing before deciding to go down to the lobby because he could really use either a coffee or a drink right about now.

 

xxx

 

Sam ends up meeting Dean down in the restaurant, they eat a hearty dinner of ham and mashed potatoes and discuss their next move on the case. Things are noticeably different now, Sam's contributing more, making fair points. Dad never really listens to what Sam has to offer, and now Dean isn't sure why. They would probably get a lot more done a lot faster if they were each equally involved in investigations. Dean figures that'll never happen, though. Yeah, _when pigs fly,_ he thinks as he listens to Sam give theories on why the police haven't found any valuable information yet.

They make plans for the following day and head up to their room to call it a night.

Dad's still not back from whatever errands he was running. The bed's empty, as it often is. They change for bed by shedding a few layers. Sam's in a worn-out red t-shirt, arms fumbling with a heavy belt. Dean gets under the covers halfway but doesn't shut the lights off yet. He watches out of the corner of his eye while pretending to adjust the sheets as Sam's jeans fall away from him and he bends down to pick them up. He folds them neatly and places them on the dresser before sitting down on the edge of the bed beside Dean. His spine curves as he hunches forward a little. He's not getting into bed. It gives Dean an excuse to look.

"What's wrong?" He asks Sam's back. Dean figures he's still thinking about Liza and the incident from today so when all Sam does in response is turn his head a little, Dean says "you okay?"

Sam's body shifts so he's half-facing Dean. His eyes are heavy as he looks down. "Dean, I... I know you saw what happened last night."

Dean tries not to display the extent of his relief at the unexpected subject. Instead, he offers a weak smirk. "Hey, don't sweat it. Happened to the best of us."

Sam looks equal parts surprised and alleviated. "Really?"

Dean gives him a nod.

"So you're telling me it's... normal? It's been happening... I don't know what it is."

Dean feels like laughing but he knows it'll earn him a shove and the silent treatment. "It's normal, Sammy."

Sam crawls into bed and fixes the covers up under his armpits. "That's a relief."

Dean shuts the light out. Sam's warmth makes his skin buzz under the chalky-feel of the sheets. It's silent for a few minutes, nothing but the sound of Sam's breathing and the creak and bounce of the bedsprings as Sam's legs try and find a comfortable position. Dean remembers the glimpse of flesh he caught earlier, Sam's body's covered up so often by hand-me-downs and second-hand bargain flannel; Dean revels in the moments he gets to take a peek at the extent of Sam's adolescent metamorphosis.

"So..." Sam starts, his voice noticeably softer now. "It happened to you?"

Dean sighs. He thought Sam was asleep. "Yeah, it did."

"Like, often?"

"Uh huh."

"Kay, 'cause it's been happening like _really_ often."

Dean feels something tingle low down between his legs. His thighs clench and he fists the quilted blanket in his hands as he stares up at the ceiling.

"What exactly _is_ it?"

"I don't know, Sam," Dean spits and it sounds a lot harsher than he anticipated. "Can we not talk about this anymore?"

"Fine," Sam huffs and turns on his side.

Dean rolls his eyes. It's a long two minutes before Dean finally says something. "Sam, I don't know, okay? It's your body going through changes. That's it."

"It's okay, Dean. You don't have to explain. Good night."

There's the silent treatment Dean was waiting for. Dean tongues his cheek and stops himself from rolling his eyes a second time. "Sam..."

Sam's quiet, unmoving.

"Look, man. It's nothing to worry about," he tries, gentler this time. He doesn't know what else to say. He never really looked into it himself, didn't see any need to. It was just something that happened. Sam always wants to friggin' _talk_ about everything.

"Okay, good night" is all Sam says, but he seems to at least have less distance in his tone this time.

 

xxx

 

Sam's drowning, or floating or sinking, he's not sure. But he sees nothing but the murky green of lake water all around him, he tries to gasp for air but it's useless. His eyes are open wide, he's sure of it. He can even see little white specks floating around him where light catches from an overhead source, not bright enough to be the sun but just light enough that he wants to go to it because he knows he'd be able to breathe up there, above the surface of the water. He sees a shattered figure overhead, dark and shaded, it's looking at him but slowly it departs and he's left alone. He tries to scream, Dean's name followed by _help me_ but he's frozen everywhere, even in his throat. He knows if he could just reach up with his hands, he'd be able to break out of this state of paralysis. He tries repeatedly but it's useless. He's scared. He's _too_ scared. And now he realizes he's dreaming so it only gets worse. He starts to think he's going to be stuck this way forever but then he realizes that panicking is definitely not making it any better. He focuses inward on his breathing and tries to get it to slow down. It works, the water's morphing into something else now, disappearing and changing color. He gets lighter, and then, the water's completely gone and he wakes up with what he swears sounds like a _splash._

Dean's resting dormant beside him, they face each other and Sam feels like he could breathe again. He takes deep, deliberate breaths and nudges in a little more next to Dean. His hands rest on the bed in front of Dean's, they're so close he could feel Dean's sleep-heavy breaths puffing humid against the backs of his knuckles. Sam lets a finger come up and stroke feather-light over Dean's skin right near his wrist. He tests to see if Dean wakes but he barely stirs, fingertips giving small little unconscious twitches.

Eventually Sam's anxiety dies down and he's able to shut his eyes once more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is hitting me more on a personal close-to-home level and I didn't really even mean for it but am finding it strangely therapeutic.


	3. Not Him

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Liza's journal reveals a new and shocking lead for the boys. Meanwhile, the authorities uncover her body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An elderly man in the café I spent most of my time writing this in asked me if I was writing a novel. I smiled "sort of" and he wished me good luck. Well, here's to you, sweet man.

In the morning, Sam flips through page after page of Liza's diary, the only lead they've got, while Dean takes a shower. Dean's singing Led Zeppelin loudly and terribly, melodies all screwed up but it makes Sam smile anyway.

Liza's diary keeps mentioning someone named "D," which sounds either like a nickname or an initial to keep that person's identity a secret. Sam thinks of people in Liza's life whose names begin with D and the only one he knows of is her stepfather, Daniel. But it doesn't make any sense. The entries speak intimately of this mysterious "D" as though he was her lover. There are even a few poems written about him and one note written in visibly different handwriting addressed to "My darling Liza" stuffed between the pages. It dawns on Sam that there might be more than meets the eye when it comes to the Stephens family.

Dean comes out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around his waist and it looks like he barely used it to dry off the rest of his body. He's still humming as he rummages through the top drawer for something clean-ish to wear. His back is strong, shoulders square and lightly freckled, he turns when Sam's voice cracks on "Dean." Sam's eyes immediately land on his chest before flicking up to his face and then he clears his congested throat.

"Take a look at this."

Dean comes over and sits on the bed next to Sam, he smells clean and fresh and like Dad's aftershave, the heat of the shower still emanating off of him. Sam places the open journal on his lap and firmly points to the entry with the poems and letter. Dean focuses and skims his eyes over the letter.

"All of her entries starting from when she called it off with Brian have to do with this "D" guy. Who can you think of in Liza's life whose name starts with D?"

Dean seems to inspect the wall ahead or somewhere far off, but then he comes up with the same conclusion Sam did.

"Exactly."

"That's just sick..." Dean makes a disgusted face as he continues reading the entries.

Sam frowns a little, words suddenly getting caught in his throat. "Actually, Dean, it's... pretty common." He recalls all of the articles he's read in his years as official Winchester head of research department and how sexual relations often get established when a new family member gets introduced.

"Anyway, whatever. What say we go talk to the cradle-robber?" Dean says, shutting the diary.

"No, before we go accusing anyone we should make sure our facts our correct."

Dean rolls his eyes. "What, so you're some kinda lawyer now?"

Sam makes an offended face but the word coming off Dean's tongue like that makes him feel important. "Remember how Terry seemed to be hiding something? Maybe this is the huge secret she's keeping."

Dean complies and sends Sam down to get breakfast as he changes.

 

Dad's in the lobby chatting with the tall officer Hamilton. Sam stays out of the way and sits at a table by one of the windows until Dad comes over and sits in front of him.

"Where's Dean?" He asks gruffly, glancing out the window and then around the lobby, strong shoulders pulled forward.

"He's coming."

"Police are bringing in more of their forces to look for the body. Hopefully if they find her, it'll give you boys some new leads. It'll be hard to burn the bones after they find her."

Sam twists a sugar packet in his fingers and contemplates. "Is it possible... I mean... Could it be that there's something _else_ keeping Liza here?"

"What do you mean, Sam?"

"I mean... not something physical? But more... emotional?"

John squints his eyes, trying to figure Sam out, but then says "that makes no sense. Haven't I taught you anything? A spirit's connection to the physical world is always something physical. Their bones, a piece of DNA, what have you. You _know_ that, Sam."

"I know, but—"

Dean pulls out a chair and Dad's attention shifts. He tells Dean what he told Sam.

"I want you boys to watch what the police do with the body. Then, you can finally lay this spirit to rest."

Sam hates the way Dad says _this spirit_ like she wasn't a person, like she doesn't have her own story, like she wasn't an eighteen-year-old girl who was _murdered._ He's distanced himself so much from everything, Sam briefly wonders if it's a defense mechanism or just the way Dad is now, either way it's sad. Sam hopes he never gets to that point. Dean's picked it up already, it seems; or at least he pretends for Dad, Sam knows there's more. Knows that even though Dean follows Dad's orders and complies to his every request, he knows for the most part he doesn't always agree with them. He's conflicted.

They briefly catch Dad up on the case and then he leaves them to it.

 

They walk to the diner from the lodge because it's so close. When Terry sees them she stiffens and pretends to be occupied with wiping down every corner of the counter.

"What do you guys want?" She says in a soft voice, not making eye contact when they both sit down at the counter.

"Coffee would be good," Dean says.

Sam makes a face but when Terry comes back, he asks her if they could talk.

"What about?" She still seems skittish and weary.

"Liza had a journal," Sam starts. "In it, she wrote about a man she called 'D'..."

Terry's face flushes and she turns her back to them, leaning against the counter. Dean takes a sip of his coffee and exchanges a look with Sam.

"Terry... Was this man Daniel, her stepfather?"

Her shoulders begin to shake. Then, a hand comes up to her face and wipes something away. She nods after a long silent pause.

Sam and Dean's eyes widen. Sam gives her another few moments to compose herself before he asks gently, "what can you tell us about the affair?"

She turns back around to face them slowly and her eyes are red. When she speaks, her voice is stuffy. "Um... She didn't want anyone knowing about it because she said they wouldn't understand. I was the first one she told. She made it sound so fantastic. Like they were part of some incredible scandalous love story. I had never seen her so happy to be in love."

"Who else knows about it?" Dean asks after taking a sip of coffee.

"No one that I know of. Except, well..."

"Who?"

"After Liza's death, Brian and I... we were pretty torn up. It just sort of came out one night. I didn't mean to say anything."

Sam looks at Dean who glances once at him then proceeds to probe Terry for any more information she might have. She doesn't give them much more than that. A few minutes later a handful of police officers and two detectives come into the diner asking for coffee to-go. There's more of them outside. Terry's hands are full in a matter of seconds. A burly officer with a dark scruffy beard brushes up next to Dean to reach over the counter. He grabs hold of the first cup she places down and the rest of the officers soon follow. After the place clears out, Dean gives Sam a little head nod and they're on their way.

 

"What're you so smug about?" Sam asks Dean, who's got this dumb look on his face and is reaching in his back pocket. He pulls something out and weighs it in his palm. Sam recognizes it as a radio transmitter; it keeps buzzing in and out, spewing white noise.

"Where'd you get that?" Sam asks, impressed.

"Snagged it from one of the officers."

After Sam grins, he says "You know he's gonna be wondering where it is, right?"

Dean shoots Sam a look that says "so what?" and then they reach the lodge and get in the Impala.

Sam sighs. "Dean, everything about this case is just... I don't know, _weird_."

"Weird?" Dean wrinkles up his brow and places the transmitter on the dashboard. They wait for it to spark into life again.

"Yeah, like... why would Dad put us on a case that isn't even solved yet?"

"Sam, you know there's a difference between the living and the dead, right?"

Sam rolls his eyes. "Whatever that's supposed to mean."

"It's supposed to mean that we do our job with her spirit while the cops do theirs with her body."

Sam doesn't say anything because at this point he's fed up, and if he thinks about it that _does_ seem to make sense, but then why did Sam want _both_ jobs? He wants to know her story, he wants to know who killed her and why, but he also wants to be the one to give her peace.

"You get it?"

"Guess."

"Huh?"

"I guess! But that's not really what I meant anyway."

"Then what did you mean?"

"How are we supposed to burn the bones if the cops and the coroners are going to be with the body the whole time?" Sam says plainly.

They both let that hang in the air, turning it over in their minds. Dean opens his mouth to say something but the transmitter sputters to life. A muffled almost indistinguishable voice comes on, addressing different search parties and naming street names, a few Sam recognizes and a few he doesn't. Sam hears the mention of Prairie lake, where they were yesterday, and he perks up. Dean doesn't seem to notice.

"Dean!"

"What?"

"They're searching the lake. We have to go. She's there, I know she is."

Dean contemplates for a while, searching Sam's face, but then he puts the Impala into gear and they hit the road.

 

They're crouching behind some overgrown brush, sticks and rocks cracking under their shoes, damp leaves pressed into soil and grass. A group of police officers are standing around talking into their radios. In the water, there's a boat and an underwater recovery crew wading out and getting some gear on. The Ashwood county Sheriff is there, too; they must be pretty certain about the lake, Sam thinks.

Dad usually impersonates a detective on cases like this, but since they're on their own and a couple of kids it's highly unlikely they'd be permitted to be present during the investigation.

They wait in the brush and minutes soon turn to hours. Sam's sitting cross-legged, his butt feels wet even through his jeans and his shoes are mucky. Dean keeps rising and falling on his knees, checking through the leaves for any new information. It seems to go on like this forever. Sam keeps thinking back to what Dad said. He wants to try the same conversation with Dean and see where it leads, but he's nervous he'll get the same kind of rejection. Nevertheless, he pokes at Dean's knee when Dean sits back and sighs.

"Dean?"

Dean looks down at Sam's prodding finger. "What?"

"Is it possible that... that there's something _else_ keeping Liza's spirit here? Not something physical... I mean something like... like _closure_."

Dean stares at him blankly. "Closure?"

"I mean, that's possible, right?"

"No."

"You didn't even think about it—"

"I didn't need to."

"Right. I forgot," Sam nods. "You're just like Dad."

"Sam—"

"You said you were going to trust me. So what, you were lying?"

"I wasn't lying. But what you're saying, Sam, goes against everything we've ever been taught. You know that, right?"

Sam's eyes focus on Dean's as something inside him tenses up. "Yeah. I do."

"Gentlemen," a gruff voice startles them from above. "This is a private investigation. You aren't allowed here. Go home."

Dean stands right away and brushes himself off. "Oh, see, officer, we were just—"

The officer shakes his head and cuts Dean off, giving them a shooing motion with his hands like they were a couple of pesky flies. The one beneficial thing about being young was that no one took you seriously enough to think you were up to something dangerously important. "I don't care why you're here, you have to go. Pack it up. Let's go."

 

On the way back to the Impala, Dean curses really loudly and kicks some rocks that go flying.

Sam rubs at his temple. "Look, Dean, it's not the end of the world. If they find her, we'll know about it. How about we go talk to Daniel?"

Dean cracks a smirk as he shakes his head because he knows they have no choice now but to do what Sam wants and Sam seems oddly satisfied. "Fine."

 

xxx

 

Daniel's tight-lipped when they confront him about the affair. He seems spooked. He keeps glancing around the house wide-eyed and skittish. Georgia Stephens is working; they find out from Daniel that she's one of the town's only real-estate agents. It explains the house's pristine appearance and Georgia's prestigious demeanor Sam noted earlier. She must be highly-esteemed throughout the town.

Daniel implies that he's already told the cops all that he's willing to, and that his mind won't be changed by a couple of kids. The only thing he gives up is that he loved Liza very, very much and that he would never hurt her. Investigating murder proves to be a lot more difficult than either of them anticipated.

The police radio buzzes and Dean practically bolts out of the room, leaving Sam to grin sloppily at Daniel who's starting to appear suspicious of them. After Sam thanks him for his time, he meets Dean out front.

"They found her, Sammy," Dean states, wide-eyed and excited.

 

xxx

 

There're cops and there's press and there's half the county sheriff's department and three detectives in front of the coroner's and it's hectic and serious and Sam and Dean aren't allowed past a certain point.

Her body was found in the lake; drowned, according to multiple sources; not that Sam didn't know that already. They're standing with a crowd of locals when Sam gets this heavy feeling in his chest. He leans up against Dean, thinking it'll pass, but then he shivers and Dean asks him what's wrong.

"I don't know..." he says, running his fingers over his arms that surely have goosebumps on them. He shakes, suddenly freezing cold, and Dean supports him. Everything blurs, he shuts his eyes.

"Sam?" Dean leads him out of the crowd and tries to get Sam to focus. Sam's trying, but he feels like he can't move, like his body suddenly weighs a thousand tons. Quicksand is pulling his feet down further and further, he presses into Dean to hang on and he vaguely hears Dean calling his name but he can't respond. Over everything he hears the same screeching _not him_ once, only once, before he starts to regain control. Everything lifts and he opens his eyes.

"Sammy?!" Dean's huge green eyes stare back at him, his warm hands cupping the sides of his face.

"Yeah... yeah."

"You okay?! You with me?"

"Yeah, Dean. That was..."

"What the hell happened?"

"It's Liza again. She keeps saying the same thing but I'm not sure who she's talking about..."

"What?" Dean's still holding on to Sam's elbows, afraid he'll topple over again.

"She keeps saying _not him,_ " Sam's voice shakes as he blinks up at Dean."She said it after we went to Brian's place and she said it right now. I don't think Daniel did it either, Dean."

"Okay, Sammy, calm down. We're gonna figure this out. I don't know how she's communicating with you and only you like that, but we're gonna figure it out. We should head back to the hotel and tell Dad about this."

"No," Sam says, letting Dean lead them out onto the street where the car's parked. "I don't want Dad involved. He won't understand. Please, Dean."

"Okay, okay, fine."

 

xxx

 

They eat another hearty meal for dinner with their father, go over the findings of the day (a good amount of which Dad already knows about) but mention nothing of Sam's (second) encounter with Liza's spirit.

 

They settle into bed at half-past eleven. Sam's freezing cold so he isn't ashamed when he presses into Dean's warmth and finds a comfortable position there. Dean breathes into his hair whenever he turns his head slightly and it makes Sam sigh.

"Your feet are like ice cubes," Dean tries to whisper, so as not to wake their snoring father.

"I know," Sam says, rubbing them up against Dean's shins.

"Stoppit," Dean says but doesn't jerk away.

"Sorry." Sam starts to get restless, wiggling his toes around under the covers and trying to suppress the shivers that are working their way up his spine.

Dean sighs after a few minutes. "Come here." He pulls Sam in even closer, so that their bodies are pressed together and Dean's arms are wrapped around his back. Sam's long legs weave between Dean's and he's finally able to relax into the heated comfort of his big brother's body. He feels it spreading to the ends of his limbs and he lets his breaths drag out longer and slower until he eventually falls asleep.

 

xxx

 

Dean's been in and out of sleep all night, it's probably somewhere around three or four in the morning and he feels like it's been eternities. Sam's body isn't exactly uncomfortable to be smothered by, actually just the opposite. He's been pathetically hard since Sammy first slid his leg between his own and it's not going away. That was the uncomfortable part. Every time he'd start to drift off, Sammy would sigh or swallow or smack his lips together and it would wake up his body again. Not to mention the thigh that Sam has sprawled out across his own keeps jerking restlessly.

Dean looks over at the clock on the little night table. He was right — 3:16AM.

Sam shifts onto his back so that both his shoulders are resting on the mattress, neck still turned toward Dean. He looks so much older when he sleeps, Dean marvels, all serious and peaceful. He's letting out hot little puffs of air through his nose that reach Dean's face across the joined pillows. Dean's eyes travel tentatively down his brother's dormant body, down to where his legs are sprawled and as he suspected, a prominent bulge stretches his boxers from underneath. Sam's fully asleep, Dean reassures himself as he risks a hand on his brother's knee. Sam barely stirs, instead letting out a particularly loud breath and Dean's eyes dart up but Sam's lashes merely twitch.

Dean strokes over Sam's knee, and now the kid's plenty heated up, it seems. Dampness forms between his own palm and Sam's skin, causing his thumb to stick and skid lightly. Absently, Dean lets his palm migrate further in to where Sam's thigh's open; briefly he touches the cotton of his underwear but it's so warm he gets overwhelmed and instead rests it higher up. Sam's cock seems to twitch under the thin see-everything-through grey fabric and Dean flicks his eyes up again but Sam's still asleep. Dean shuts his eyes but then feels Sam slowly start to move his hips. They make circles on the bed and Sam starts to make noises — small, hushed little whimpers and Dean feels encouraged to stroke the skin at his thigh again. Sam's breathing gets significantly louder and labored, the bulge under his underwear grows. With a start, Sam jerks awake and looks down right away. He catches a whine in his throat and then looks at Dean with wet eyes.

"It's okay..." Dean tries to say and it's barely a whisper as he strokes Sam's thigh soothingly. "It's okay..." Dean can pretty much feel the heat that takes to Sam's cheeks as his body wriggles on the bed. Sam's legs can barely stay still. It's like he's right on the edge and it's hot as hell.

Dean cups his hand over the hard jut in between Sam's legs and tugs upward. Sam's eyes slam shut as he worms his hips around and pushes into the momentum of Dean's hand. Dean pushes Sam's boxers down and out of the way, exposing the pink, fresh skin underneath and closes his hand around Sam's warm length. It's already slick at the tip with adolescent precome and as Dean's fingers coax it down over his impressive shaft, Sam seems like he's about to explode. Dean takes it as slow as he can because he's scared if and when this ends, he'll never get it back. Sam is literally falling apart in his hands; his baby brother, whose body has been a mystery to Dean ever since he surpassed four foot five, is allowing Dean to unravel the seams he usually keeps stitched closed. And hell if it isn't the biggest turn-on he's ever seen. Sam gasps and jerks when Dean runs a thumb over the head and coaxes out another drop of precome. Sam's mesmerized, keeps looking down at Dean's strong hand working him thoroughly and biting at his supple red lips. Sam pushes further, trying to find his own rhythm with Dean's hand but Dean squeezes and Sam whimpers like a hurt puppy.

"Shhhh..." Dean murmurs hot in his ear, and Sam's head jolts up, shooting a panicked glance across the room at their sleeping father. "Don't wanna wake Dad."

"Dean," Sam moans softly, his whole body strained and shaking.

"You like it?"

Sam nods and their faces meet. Sam quickly looks away, as if embarrassed, but then he smothers his face in between Dean's shoulder and the pillow. His hips push and push, and Dean finally gives him more friction. Sam's sweating now, and pulsating from head to toe, mirroring Dean's heartbeat, and all it takes is one final stroke and Sam's spilling all over Dean's hand and his own stomach. He groans into Dean's shirt as Dean works him through every tremor, overflowing come saturating Dean's fist. Sam pushes out the last of his orgasm and Dean slows to a stop, admiring the slick heaviness one last time before letting go.

Sam's still trying to catch his breath when he peels his face away and looks down at what he's done. He looks up at Dean with huge eyes and then whispers "wow."

"How'd that feel?" Dean asks.

"Amazing."

Dean flashes him a smirk and then looks down at his own drenched hand.

"Is that supposed to happen?" Sam asks.

Dean snickers. "Yeah."

Sam's fingers play in the come, completely mesmerized, before Dean tosses him a towel from the bathroom and they dry off.

Luckily, Dad's a heavy sleeper.


	4. The Lady with the Pie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and John get into an argument which leads Sam to take off on his own and encounter a very interesting lady.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep I'm still writing this!  
> This is gonna be messy cause I haven't had time to edit so forgive that and enjoy :)

They eat breakfast in the restaurant on the main level of the lodge with their father, who's been working on his plate of eggs and toast and a side order of extra bacon for the past five minutes or so. John doesn't notice the looks Sam keeps giving Dean, short loaded glances and then the flicker of remembrance as he blinks and looks away, subtle pink coloring his cheeks. John also doesn't notice the way Dean looks back at Sam, only when he's sure he's not looking, mouthful of breakfast and a weight behind his eyes as he tries to suppress the memories of last night and the sweet sounds of Sam's arousal; how he drew out each and every one of them, how he took Sam apart with his hands.

Dad always was a fast eater. He finishes quick and wipes his hands on the little white napkin before crushing it small and tossing it on his practically-licked-clean plate.

"You boys finish up, I'll be right back." He leaves them and heads over to the front desk for something.

Sam lets his eyes move to Dean again and this time he sees the way he's pretending to inspect his food instead of looking at Sam. Sam frowns and pops the cube of a hashbrown into his mouth. Now that Dad's gone, Dean seems to be purposefully silent, one elbow on the table as he forks at his potatoes.

"Dean?"

He swallows. "Sam?" Still doesn't look up.

"You okay?" Sam asks because he's not sure what else to say.

Finally pale pools of green look up and over Sam's face. "Why wouldn't I be?" He looks confused as hell.

Sam shrugs. "I don't know... you haven't said anything to me since we woke up."

Dean makes a face in his defense, and before Sam has a chance to say anything else Dad returns and sits back on the edge of the seat.

"Alright, looks like it's time to pack up," Dad says, resting an arm on the table and looking over his sons.

They both sort of freeze up and Sam looks around, wondering if he heard correctly.

"Pack up?" Dean repeats after a few moments.

John eyes between his boys and then his eyebrows lift in a sort of false sympathy that makes Sam's stomach churn. "Come on, Dean. You knew this case wasn't going to last long. Since when do we jump on cases that aren't threatening? This girl's still haunting the town 'cause she was too young to go, didn't wanna leave. But she ain't dangerous. We're packin' up. Uncle Bobby says there's something in Pennsylvania that could be serious. A lot more serious 'n this."

Sam starts to tremble, his palms going all sweaty. In his head he's screaming at his father but the words are caught in his throat and something forms in the pit of his stomach. He's not ready to leave. Dean knew? What the hell does that mean? Liza's still here. He can feel her. He feels her every day. She wants to be laid to rest. He's not leaving.

"I'm not leaving," Sam states solidly, and he's satisfied with the way it comes out even though his legs are shaking and he was sure his voice was going to as well.

John rubs at his temple as if he was expecting this and it only upsets Sam further. "Sam..."

"No, Dad. You put us on this case. I want to finish it. I have to. Dean, you knew?"

Dean considers speaking but he doesn't, doesn't deny it.

"He didn't know how long it was going to last. Neither did I. Somethin' bigger came up, so it's time to go. The police'll solve the girl's murder and then —"

"Her name is _Liza_."

John lets his jaw click and then continues. "And then she'll be put to rest."

Sam stands, looking once at Dean who's staring at a speck on the table before leaving. He doesn't even have a plan, he just leaves. He hears John calling after him, once, twice, three times, but he ignores it. So there was no actual point in them coming here. It was only for Dad, so that he could do his little errand and then they'd leave. Again.

Just once. Just once in his goddamn life Sam wants to finish something he starts.

 

He walks and walks and he's so grateful he put on the heaviest flannel he owns this morning because it's surely somewhere in the low forties and he's shaking like a leaf uncontrollably. He walks and gets lost and yeah it's stupid but he's a kid, he's allowed to be stupid once in a while.

 

Before long he's on a small street that's narrow enough to be completely covered by the fallen leaves of each tree, the road a sea of orange and red and brown. There are only a few houses and they all look like they're hiding from something, concealed by trees and lush warm-colored foliage crawling in every direction up the brick. Sam sighs and before he gets any _more_ lost he decides to stop, huffing and collapsing on the curb. He blows warm air into his sleeves and bunches them over his fists, kneading them together. Thankfully he can't see his breath yet, but he has a feeling he'll be able to when night falls on Ashwood.

If he's being honest with himself, he's not completely sure why he feels so attached to this case. Is it because he feels bad for her? Because Liza was so young? Is it because he understands her? Why? He doesn't even know her. Or didn't. And yet he feels her pain as if it were his own.

"Excuse me?" A woman's voice calls to him from a distance, behind him.

He whips his head around, his heart jumping, and sees the door to the house behind him opened, letting out a warm, orange light.

"Are you okay?" The woman asks.

He stands up and brushes himself off. A few leaves fall off of his pants. "Yeah, I... sorry..."

"What are you sorry for?" The woman asks.

"For sitting on your... property." Sam shoves his hands in his pockets.

"Why were you sitting on my property?" From what Sam can make out, the woman is young, in her mid-thirties or early forties, and she's got these warm looking slippers on and a thick sweater, her dirty blonde hair resting just at her shoulders.

Sam squints. "I... I got lost."

"Come here."

Everything in Sam's training tells him to walk away. To say _no, thank you_ and walk back the way he came. But something deeper than that tells him it's okay. And he doesn't know when it got so late but it looks like the sun's already going down outside. He needs warmth, and this place and this woman can supply it. He quickly shuffles up the driveway and stands on her porch, the warmth from her house already seeping out and tickling his frozen cheeks. Her house smells like apples and dough rising.

"Why'd you get lost?" And now he can see she's got these lovely blue eyes, bright and sure behind the age lines, and she's questioning him because she's trying to figure him out. Something he often does as a defense mechanism, to weigh the danger in a situation. He recognizes it and responds.

"I was running from something. I mean... figuratively speaking."

"Hm..." she thinks. "Well maybe you were running _to_ something. Ever think of that?"

Sam licks his numbing lips and contemplates. His eyes are doing the same thing hers are: scanning and thinking.

She smiles. "Come in. If you want."

Even still he hesitates. "I..."

"Well you don't have to, but that sweater won't keep you warm for long. Especially when the night falls over here." She turns her back on him and that's a sign of trust, Sam knows. She saunters to the kitchen, Sam can see it even from the doorway. It's well lit, colorful and cluttered. He hears Dean in his head — the voice of reason — saying _what, are you crazy?!_ but he ducks inside and silences him. He shuts the door behind him and hears the woman from the kitchen asking him if he likes apple pie. He smirks, kicking off his shoes and thinking of Dean again.

"Yeah." He walks in, frozen little toes thawing inside his socks. Her home is interesting, it reminds Sam of the hotel, same warm colors and it's well lived-in, tons of little knick knacks here and there, wooden log bookshelf lining one of the walls and a stone fireplace smack in the middle. It's lit and there's a chair in front of it draped in multi-color knit wool. There's a book on the chair, green and bulky with a thousand place markers in it.

She comes up behind him and offers him a plate.

"Thanks," he takes it, smiling and looking down at the slice of steaming pie. His mouth waters.

"What's your name?"

"Sam."

"I'm Lorelei. You're not from Ashwood, are you?"

Sam sits down on the welcoming couch, little decorative pillows surrounding him comfortably. "How could you tell?"

She smiles and then sits in the chair by the fire, placing the book on the small table beside it. "So why are you here?" She pours some tea into china that was already placed on the table for two settings. Sam looks around skeptically. She seems to live alone and yet the tea is there, and Lorelei is filling up the second cup in front of Sam.

"I..." he shifts awkwardly.

She waits for an answer, patiently sipping from her teacup.

"Did you know I was coming or something?" He says mostly as a joke but it doesn't come out the way he wanted it to.

She raises a brow and looks at the tea placements, then shrugs.

Sam draws in a breath then stands, putting the half-eaten pie on the table in front of him because he's starting to get this funny feeling.

"I should go..."

She smiles and sighs. "Sam... I'm a psychic. Sometimes these things happen. You don't have to be afraid."

His eyes widen and focus on her. She raises her brows but doesn't stand, and this time Sam gets it. And it all makes sense. He sits back down, retrieving his plate and taking another bite of pie because _goddamn,_ it's the best thing he's ever tasted. She's looking at him almost sympathetically, watching him scarf the stuff down.

Lorelei doesn't speak, lets him take his time getting comfortable.

"I'm here with my dad and brother," he says after swallowing. "My dad had to... take care of some business in town."

She squints and Sam can feel her eyes on him even when he looks away. He wonders if she could tell he's lying. But he isn't lying, not really. Just avoiding some truths.

"Why were you running?" She asks.

"I... I didn't want to do what my dad wanted of me. He doesn't... doesn't understand."

"And your brother?"

Sam's eyes shoot up. "He... I don't think he understands either, but..." Sam lets his gaze wander over to the fire. "But he tries." He curls his lip in, watching the flames flicker and dance.

She nods, listening. _Listening._ To him.

He smiles weakly and takes the teacup into his hands. "I'm not sure... what to do. Kind of lost. Y'know?" He doesn't know why on earth this kind psychic lady would be at all interested in anything going on in his life, but something about her makes him willing to open up in ways he never has with anyone.

"You want to know if you should listen to what your family says or do your own thing. Am I right?"

And yeah. That's exactly it. Sam nods.

"Do you have good intentions, or selfish intentions?" She asks simply.

"Good. Good. Of course."

"Do you mind if I...?" She changes position and sits on the couch next to Sam, her hands gently extending toward his which are resting in his lap. He looks at them and holds them palm-up and offers them to her. She smooths her fingers over his left one, turning it over and running along his knuckles with the tips of her fingers like she's seeing with her hands. Sam feels the warmth and the softness of her skin and can't look away from her. He's nervous of what she'll find, like she'll see a glimpse of who he is and who his family is and what they do and back off, frightened or appalled. But she's quiet, simply _feeling_ , and then she says "interesting."

Sam wants to ask what's so interesting about his dumb hand, but his mouth stays shut.

"Interesting."

 

xxx

 

It's been four hours since Sam took off. Four hours since Dad, in yet another enraged fit, told Dean he'd better find Sam (or so help him God) so they could get a move on. Said he "didn't have time for this" and that Bobby would be waiting for them in Chambersburg. Wherever the hell that was on the map.

Dean's already asked like half the locals if they saw any floppy-haired scrawny kid wandering around but nobody had seen him.

Dean's sitting in the Impala and panic is starting to kick in because the sun's starting to go down and still no Sam. He can't very well go back to the hotel, not unless he wants to be disowned by Dad, he can't go to the police because he knows they've got bigger things to take care of right now than some kid who took off for a few hours 'cause his family was being douchebags. Still, he's scoured street after street and —

"Damnit, Sam!" He slams his knuckles on the steering wheel, then gets frustrated with the fact that nothing budged. Like he's got no strength, like he's useless.

And then, a white hot pain, something shoots off in his head, the world's worst migraine. He clutches at his temple and cries out at the same time something else does. He thinks he hears his name being called out, Sammy's voice.

After the pain subsides, Dean's left in a sweat. He looks around frantically, the car suddenly way too silent. Great. So now he's hearing things. He scrubs at the tension in his face and then gets out of the car for some air. He would continue to look for Sammy on foot. And he would find him if it killed him. Or made him mentally insane, apparently.

 

xxx

 

Lorelei is still holding Sam's hand, delicately tracing the tops of her fingers over his knuckles, the meat of his palm. Her eyes flutter open as she smoothes her hands lightly over his wrist. "Tell me something, Sam. What do you think about the dead girl in town?"

Sam's eyes widen and he takes in a sharp breath, pulling his hand away quickly. "What?"

She repeats herself, her eyes burning holes into his. "What do you think about Liza, the girl who was murdered here?"

Sam looks down in his lap and massages the prickly sensations out of his hand. "I... I think it was unfortunate... what happened to her."

Her deep-set crystal blue eyes squint at him. He starts to feel her gaze like it was a physical thing, like he could measure the weight of it and the temperature of it. His hand starts tingling again.

He gathers himself. "It's getting late. I should go." His legs are weaker than he expects when he stands on them, and then his head starts spinning.

"Sam, please."

He holds his head, thinking it'll pass, but it only gets worse. His legs tremble until they give out completely, and suddenly he's on her carpet on his hands and knees clutching at his head to make the pain go away. The world spins and he hears his name being called. His vision's black and he's fighting this inexplicable urge to collapse on the ground and convulse. Or at least that's what it feels like, his whole body's trembling and heavy.

He's scared, he wants Dean. He calls out to him like in his dream, which is stupid because he knows he's not there and instead it's this woman who's probably the one who made him feel this way, he panics and thinks about how much of a mistake this whole goddamn thing was: coming to Ashwood, taking off alone, walking into a stranger's house, stupid stupid stupid!                                                

"Sam, if you can hear me," and now hands are gently caressing his straining shoulders, comforting and reassuring, "I want you to relax your mind. I know you're frightened. Please, please, Sam. Calm your mind."

Sam reluctantly listens, takes several deep breaths and then lets his mind get as clear as possible, doesn't think about anything except relaxing, and that's when the vision comes.

He's under water again, just like in his dream. Impossibly, his vision is clear, fragmented only by the ripples of the water above him that make it look like he's seeing through shards of glass, gazing up at a figure. He could clearly make out a woman, with blonde out-of-place hair and wild eyes and mascara running down her too-blushed cheeks.

He distinctly hears two words: _help me_ and then slowly, slowly, he regains control as he roots his fingers into the carpet and brings his breathing back to composed. He opens his eyes, blinking several times as his body gets lighter. He sees Lorelei, concerned look on her face, holding onto his shoulders.

"Sam? Sam, are you with me?"

He manages to nod, his whole body shaking as he loosens, and then she's pulling him close and he clutches at her and releases his fear.

"You okay, Sam?"

He nods, his eyes wet, and they stay that way for a while because it feels warm and comforting.

"Did you see something?"

They stand together.

"I... I have to go," Sam's mind turns one-tracked, set on finding his brother.

"Why? Where are you going to go?" Lorelei asks, looking like she's about ready to come along with him.

"I have to find my brother. I know who killed Liza Stephens."

 

xxx

 

Dean turns down another dark street, noticing how the lamps seem to gradually be coming to life, ducking into his leather coat collar and watching the breath escape his mouth in clouds of white smoke, hands shoved deep into his pockets. His construction-worker brown boots crunch countless leaves with every step. His eyes search in every coffee shop, diner, restaurant, store he passes, glance down every street. He even calls Sam's name out a few times, into the dead air of the approaching night, each one seeming more fruitless than the last.

Dean makes his way back to the Impala, deciding at least to get back to warmth; he's no good to Sam frozen solid, but it's when his hand's on the handle that he hears Sam calling his name. Again. Only this time without the migraine. He jerks his head up and twists it around, seeing Sam approach him from down the sidewalk, long coltish legs practically running at him.

"Sam?!"

"Dean!" Sam reaches him, completely out of breath.

Dean holds his shoulders 'cause he looks like he's about to topple over. He looks him over: no scrapes, no bumps or bruises. Just huffy Sam with a red nose and huge worried puppy dog eyes. Dean silently thanks whoever up there that Sam's safe, but then starts with the grilling.

"Where the hell were you?!"

"Dean—"

"I mean, you just leave us and take off to God knows where all day?! What the hell!?"

"Dean, please, listen to me. I'm sorry."

"Where were you, Sam?"

"I met someone. A nice lady. She was a psychic."

Dean blinks, utterly blank expression on his face. "You met a psychic lady."

"I know how it sounds— please. Please just listen to me."

"What, Sam? You gonna tell me you two bonded, she told you your fortune through a crystal ball, read your palm while I was busy picking apart this town worried _sick_ about you?"

" _Dean._ I know who killed Liza."

Dean catches his breath, feeling more words halt in his throat.

"It wasn't Brian. It wasn't Daniel. That's why she kept trying to tell me _not him._ It wasn't a man at all!"

Dean just stares in disbelief.

"It was her _mother,_ Georgia Stephens." Sam's still out of breath, but he lets his words sink in, waiting for Dean to respond.

Dean shakes his head. "Sam, this is crazy. How do you know all this?"

Sam's eyes drop, fidgeting with his sweater until his hands are covered in the warm material. "The woman... Lorelei... she told me."

"Sam, she could have been lying. Y'know, maybe she has it out for this Georgia —"

" _Dean,_ " Sam asserts. "Please. Trust me."

Dean bites his cheeks. Sam's never looked so serious before, little crease in his brow in a fixed position, and Dean just stares and shudders.

"Okay. Get in the car."

They both slide in, Dean kneads his frozen fingers together and then looks over briefly to find a pair of deathly little brother pleading wet eyes.

The Impala sputters to life with the crank of the key, Dean shifts it into gear and they're moving down the road. Dean sees out of the corner of his eye the way Sam's head looks around and then back at Dean.

"Where are we going?" Sam asks hesitantly.

"Back to the hotel."

"What? Dean, no—"

"Sam."

"Dad'll be there. He'll make us leave. You know it."

"What I know is that Dad still thinks you're missing. We can't stay out forever. He told me to bring you back so that's what I'm gonna to do. We're not a couple of runaways."

Sam folds his arms and shakes his head. "You said you were gonna trust me."

Dean snaps back almost immediately. "Sam, where do you wanna sleep? The car?!"

Sam gives him a small shrug.

"We're not sleeping in the car."

 

xxx

 

They hesitate in front of their room, seeing the light on underneath the door. Dean goes to open it but Sam holds his hand over Dean's until he appears to compose himself and take a deep breath in.

John's sitting on the bed when they come in, on the hotel's phone. He hangs up immediately when he sees them and stands.

"Where the hell were you, boy?" John's all shoulders and booming answer-me-now voice and Dean cringes at the volume level, especially when Sam starts up. Their argument moves to the front of the dresser by the bathroom where Sam pretends to pick out clothes to sleep in and John is getting frustrated talking to his back.

Neither of them are listening to Dean's small words of attempted mediation, his insistence that the whole hotel could probably hear them.

Sam spins around and spits out something hurtful, says Dad never listens to him, says he met someone while he was gone today that did more listening to him in two hours than Dad did his whole life.

Dad tells him good, then Sam could stay here for all he cares and he and Dean will go and "leave his ass."

And that's when Sam says he'd rather be anywhere than with Dad, and almost immediately he's silenced by a loud crack, a hard slap right across his cheek and his small body flings into the wall with a solid thud.

"Hey, hey! Enough!" Dean finally gets involved, his chest and hands rapidly trembling, he puts his body between the two of them and John says nothing more, just leaves and the slamming door makes the frame shake.

It's too quiet now, a buzzing sensation taking root in Dean's ears as he looks Sam over. He's clutching onto the wall, bony fingers sliding down while his other hand contemplates what to do with his cheek. Brown tousled hair flops in front of his face, shielding his eyes. Dean goes to put a hand on Sam's shoulder but he shakes it away.

The air weighs a ton or ten, Dean doesn't want to say anything into it. He has a feeling his words would get lost even if he did.

Sam turns around to rest his back on the wall and that's when Dean catches a glimpse of the large red splotch on his cheek, it looks hot and sore and Dean tells him he'll go look for ice but Sam just kind of pathetically laughs, his head falling back heavily against the wall.

"He's never going to understand," Sam says, and his voice sounds deep and husky and like it's aged approximately thirty-five years. "It's no use."

"Sam..." Dean takes a step forward.

"Might as well just forget it. Pack up and do what Dad says. Just like we always do."

Dean swallows, tightness forming in his chest. "Defeat is not a good look on you, bro."

Sam scoffs a little, his head perking up. "Yeah, well neither's this." He exposes his cheek by pushing his hair aside and it looks even worse than Dean thought. Seems to be getting redder.

The tightness in Dean's chest swells. "Let me see. C'mere." He crowds Sam, inspecting the abrasion with gentle hesitant fingers. It's all pink and puffy and looks like Dad knew _exactly_ what he was doing. Dean has to bite his tongue but somehow "bastard" manages to come out anyway, and Sam's huge eyes look at him surprised.

Dean runs his thumb just under the small scrape, pressing lightly into it and it's burning, must hurt like a bitch but Sam doesn't say anything or pull away. He's just looking at Dean, _into_ Dean but Dean's afraid to meet his eyes. He's only starting to realize now how close they are, how they're sharing one space and how their hips are only inches apart.

"I'll go get ice," Dean whispers, his voice not as composed as he'd like it to be, but when he starts to pull away he feels Sam's small warm hands cup his elbows.

"No. I... Don't." His voice is small but his words are big enough for Dean to hear and to remember for the rest of his life.

Sam's hands hold on to his hips instead and they pull him back in to the space they were sharing moments ago, only now it's different because Dean's not sure what to do with his hands at first, and his head pounds so hard he has to close his eyes. Sam pulls him closer still until they're touching and he can rest his heavy head on Dean's shoulder, the perfect little nook at the perfect height and it's like a hug but better; Dean's hands come up to hold Sam, around his small back and when Sam breathes out Dean feels it on his skin, moist and alive and it makes him dizzy again.

Dean strokes his back in soothing little circles for a few minutes, it's not much but Sam's sighed deeply a few times so he seems to be enjoying the comfort.

Their hips bump together lightly every now and then, and along with the state of Dean's arousal something else starts to grow, like their pulses where they're joined; where Sam's lips and Dean's neck touch, where Sam's hands have found skin, right above his belt and are holding on to his hips, pulling and squeezing.

Breaths turn into grunts, grunts turn into little whimpers and they're all amplified in Dean's right ear, flushed cheek up against cheek and Dean noses in Sam's hair, it's long and untidy and Dean loves that it smells like a fireplace; musky woodsy kind of smell that seems to match Sam marvelously well.

It's a surprisingly easy thing when their noses meet, even though Dean's head's about to explode and he can feel and _see_ Sam's anxious modesty; full-blooded cheeks glowing and the way his parted lips don't know what to do— it dawns on Dean that Sammy's never gotten this close, this intimate, with anyone before. He runs a hand through Sam's smoky damp hair, pushing it away from the injury, and then Sam's sweet soft little lips press gently against the corner of Dean's mouth. Sam seems like he's not sure what Dean's reaction will be because he pulls back quickly and looks down; Dean feels Sam's stomach fluttering against his own where they're pressed together and Dean thinks about how admirably lovely his little brother is.

Dean's hands slide down Sam's back to rest at his hips where he now has the leverage to pull him in even closer and from there it's easy for their lips to find each other on their own.

Sam's a natural at kissing which Dean attributes only to the fact that he's got the softest, gentlest lips he's ever felt, and he could do anything he wanted with them and it'd feel amazing. Not that he's imagining him doing anything else with them other than kissing.

But they tug and press and slide against his own, making wet little noises that Dean just swallows up, and suddenly their hands are everywhere, all over each other, lifting up shirts and helping the other shrug out of layers.

One light switch turns them all off and suddenly they're in darkness and it's easier. Dean pulls Sam's shirt over his head for him and as soon as it's off Sam presses in again, bare chest flush against Dean and his skin's almost as soft as his lips; creamy-rich and like Dean shouldn't be touching it, too new, too chaste, clean against his calloused fingers eternally caked in gun oil and ash.

Sam helps Dean discard his own t-shirt and then they're skin on skin and it makes Dean lightheaded. Dean leads Sam to the foot of the bed and they crawl onto it, Sam sprawls somewhere in the middle of it and Dean comes over him, their bodies slowly grinding and pressing together. Dean could feel Sam's erection even through both of their confining jeans, could hear Sam's breaths catching and lingering in his throat, could hear the way he sounds just like last night, and it's then that Dean wonders how he lived without hearing this for so long. He swallows up all the sounds, little mewls and unnamed Sam-noises and continues to push his hips against Sam and rub them around for him. Dean feels little hands squeeze between their bodies to work at his belt and he lifts his chest to give Sam better leverage. He pulls away for a fraction of a second to see the way Sam's chin glistens with saliva and to notice how Sam wants the contact back right away. Dean gives Sam everything he wants, everything he needs. Always has and always will.

They rut against each other with the front of their pants open and it's as good as any sex Dean's ever had. Better. Much, much better because it's Sam and Dean realizes now that _sex_ and _intimacy_ mean two completely different things.

Everything's all warm and squishy between them and the harder they push, the hotter they get and the less space there is between their two individual bodies. They fit perfectly together— naturally, Sam's legs open just slightly and Dean heavy in between them, their legs rubbing and twining together.

Dean could tell when Sam's close because his hands have a death grip on Dean's hips, begging him to push harder, faster, and he breaks the kiss to pant heavily into Dean's mouth. Dean kisses his temple, his ear, his neck, wishing they were closer still, wishing he was inside his little brother's warm, willing body.

"Mmm," Sam whimpers and it's the sweetest little desperate shaky sound, he's trying to pull Dean _into_ him even though they've still got their stupid pants on and Dean tries to hold off but he can't. He spills in his boxers and groans and Sam gasps, jerking against him. He squeezes Dean tighter to him so that their orgasms merge into a single, hot sticky mess and their chests heave and heave until they're done, until they catch their breath and come back to reality.

It feels all warm and sloshy down there when Dean finally lifts his hips up a little, they make a similar face, sated and a little dazed, but then Sam smiles and manages to get all bashful again.

"Feels wet," he murmurs, just like a little kid, and Dean laughs at that.

 

It's not that they _meant_ to fall asleep like that, it's just that their boneless, exhausted limbs couldn't be bothered to get up again and so no mind was paid whatsoever to the fact that they drifted off rather quickly draped in each other's bodies.


	5. The Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam and Dean help the police department out with the case. Can they get a confession from Liza's mother?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final installment of this series. :') I wanted to finish up before December because it's still a _fall_ story and I have plans to start a new one come winter (most likely). SO hope you enjoyed, thanks for sticking with me!  
> 

John sits in the driver's seat of his pick-up truck with the engine off, where he's been all night. He's dozed a few times but always woke up in time before the paralysis kicked in. Now the sky was beginning to lighten in various shades of pink and baby blue; birds were popping up one by one on tree branches and telephone poles, and the cramp in John's neck was really starting to kick in.

He gets out of the car, bitter six o'clock breeze seeping under the collar of his worn-out leather jacket. He figures it's time to wake his boys; he'd concluded last night that even though they were never meant to stay there, finishing this case would be better for the boys than not finishing it. He'd meant to set some sort of example while they were here, let 'em know what it was like to solve things on their own in case they really are some day, and just because the trail for Mary's killer went cold the moment he realized that lead was faulty; there was no sign of demonic possession with the Bayer kid, simply an angry pyromaniac spirit that took a liking to the boy, didn't mean the town was completely rid of supernatural entities. The angry one was easily dispelled. In and out, John was done with this town in two days. Sam, on the other hand, made it clear that he wasn't. Liza Stephens. Unfortunate seventeen year old murder victim. John had to hand it to him, though, he did admire Sam's determination. Stubborn as hell, that kid, but determined. Sometimes John wasn't sure what to do with him.

 

Craig Bayer at the front desk greets him with a "mornin' Johnny boy. Slept out in the truck?"

John gives him an affirming grunt and a friendly nod as he passes and takes the stairs up to their room.

The bed's a mess when he walks in, disheveled colored covers pulled down and hanging off the side, and somewhere confused in there's skin and arms and hair, John can't even fathom two bodies at first — just this ambiguous mass of wrinkled sheets and limbs and colors that remind him of thanksgiving dinner. He walks intently to the bathroom, meaning to wash up, but when he looks back at the bed he sees it from a different angle; one that's entirely more distinguishable. Both of his sons are naked from the waist up, but they've still got their jeans on like a couple of teenage groupies. They're lying on top of each other, well, Dean's on top of Sam, has his arm all sprawled 'cross Sammy's chest, his leg too, Sam's chin's dipped toward Dean and they're both sound asleep like that. Like they had a goddamn exciting night or something and mistook each other for a sweet-looking lady. But he knows for a fact his boys didn't go out last night — he'd been in the truck the whole time and he would've seen had they been sneaking around.

He grabs for the mouthwash and clears his throat once. They don't stir. Don't even twitch.

"Boys," he finally tries in a commanding voice he's sure's loud enough to wake 'em.

Dean moves. John sees his head perk up a little out of the corner of his eye as he downs a small cup-full of the bright green fluid and rinses his mouth with it.

"Better get a move on if you wanna get to solvin' that case of yours," he says after he spits in the sink, noticing how Dean springs out of bed the moment he returns to this century and hears John's voice.

John shuts the door to wash up.

 

"Sam, get up," Dean warns, glancing once at the shut door his father is right behind, getting clothes out of the dresser in a panicked frenzy and pulling a shirt over his head.

Sam makes a confused sleep-groggy noise but only nuzzles deeper into the pillow.

"Sam." It's all hitting Dean now — the fact that they fell asleep right after doing — what they did last night, the fact that he smells like Sam's sweat, the fact that his underwear's stuck to him. He scratches at it and it barely moves — there's this whole splotch right in the front that's hard and crusted and _stuck_. He curses, body not sure what to do because Dad's in the bathroom and Sammy's there and they were sleeping _on top_ of each other and Dad saw them and Sammy's still goddamn _sleeping_ fuck!

"Sam!"

"What?" He asks, jumping a little, his tired eyes blinking open, bed-hair sticking up where he lifted it off the pillow.

And once he's up things seem to register with him too — the water on in the bathroom, Dean's skittish state and huge open eyes.

"Dad...?" Sam looks at the closed door.

"You're damn right Dad."

Sam struggles with the stupid crochet throw and looks at the front of his open jeans.

"Dean—" Sam squeaks, and Dean has no choice but to button up his pants while he waits to use the shower.

"Dean—"

"What?" Dean spits, clutching with straining knuckles onto the edge of dresser. He ducks away from his own reflection as soon as he sees it — all dark-circles and tousled, dirty hair.

"Do you think he — he saw?" Sam asks in a small voice.

"Of course he saw," Dean bites out through clenched teeth.

"Well we weren't —" Sam stutters, trying to find words. "I mean, we weren't _doing_ anything. We were just sleeping, right?" His voice is trembling, and it's trying to find comfort in Dean's, in anything Dean will give him as a response, Dean knows.

Dean glances at his reflection again and it's pale and frowning at him. "No. We weren't doing anything."

"Dean?..."

The water stops in the other room and Dean waits by the door. He can feel Sam staring at him but he doesn't look up, just stares at the stupid vomit-colored carpet with his arms full of a cleaner set of underwear and jeans until the door swings open and Dad comes out all fresh-smelling and damp. Dean ducks into the steamy room and shuts the door behind him. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding and locks it. He strips down to nothing, peeling the underwear off and wrinkling his nose in disgust because it feels gross, all dry and itchy and flaky and it looks even worse, he just wants to wash it all out, everything.

He doesn't know how he let things happen so carelessly last night. It's like his head wasn't working or even present, it was somewhere tucked away just watching and not daring to interfere. And now there's a chance Dad saw and came to a few of his own conclusions, and everything's messed up.

 

xxx

 

Dean sits with their Dad over breakfast while Sam takes his shower. There's a few other people in the hotel restaurant, knives and forks clinking and the smell of fresh coffee wafting between tables. John has his usual eggs and three types of meat with a side of toast, Dean slices into fresh buttermilk pancakes stacked on top of each other and smothered in maple syrup.

Dean's anxiety makes his leg tap under the table repeatedly, but his father seems relaxed, comfortable. He decides to speak up. "So... why the change of plans?"

John looks up from the paper he's reading, raising one eyebrow. He sighs and rests the paper down on the table. "Figured I wasn't setting the best example for you two. I brought you here to do a job. So you're going to finish it. We're Winchesters. We don't give up on a case just cause it ain't interestin' enough or whatever I said yesterday. That ain't us. Okay?"

Dean forks some of the fluffy pancake into his mouth, wide eyes flickering with apprehension as he swallows. "Okay."

"Tell your brother."

"Kay."

And John shifts a little on his seat, picks up a slice of bacon and continues reading the paper.

"What about Pennsylvania?" Dean asks.

"Bobby'll be able to hold up until we get there. Just so long as you boys realize we're on a tight schedule. No dilly-dallying. Get right to it."

"Yes, sir."

 

xxx

 

"I don't get it. He just... changed his mind?" Sam asks when they're in the car alone, preparing to go to the sheriff's office. Sam had told Dean the best approach would be to first contact an authority figure. They were still kids, they couldn't go around accusing people without a badge of some sort.

Dean shrugs. "Yeah, man, he just said he wants us to finish it. Told me to tell you."

"Yeah, that's another thing—" Sam snaps, "why didn't he want to tell me himself? I never took him as the cowardly type."

Dean rolls his eyes a little. "Sam, he's not being a coward. He's not _scared_ to talk to you, he just... didn't have the time. You were upstairs and we were talking."

"He always talks to you," Sam says lowly, almost petulantly as he slumps on the leather seat.

"Whatever, man. Let's just finish this," Dean tells him as he shifts the car into gear and they're on the road.

 

xxx

 

"Hamilton? Yeah, he and the sheriff are in the back," a receptionist at the sheriff's office with curly blonde locks informs them, sitting at a desk and clicking a pen over and over. She looks bored.

"Can we talk to him?" Dean presses. Hamilton was the officer that they'd encountered when Sam had his little meet-and-greet with Liza; he had told them to come to him if they had any information regarding the case.

"Hold on." She reaches over and presses a button that makes a speaker box buzz to life. "Sheriff?" She speaks into it.

"Yes, Jeannie?" A voice crackles back.

"There are a couple of boys out here asking to see Officer Hamilton. Should I send them in?"

There's a sigh, and then a "yes, send them in."

 

They walk into a room in the back with a large table and lots of officials sitting at it or standing around it drinking coffee. Piles of paperwork litter the table along with cardboard cups and photographs of the crime scene and one that Sam recognizes as a picture of Liza's corpse. He shivers, eyes skimming over the rest of the table as Dean finds Hamilton.

"Hi, I'm Dean, this is my brother Sam. I don't know if you remember us..."

"Oh, sure I remember you two. You boys are visiting with your father, right? Might I say, this is possibly the worst time for a fishing trip." Hamilton laughs. "I'm surprised you didn't skip town the moment you found out about all this that's going on."

Dean just smirks and glances at Sam. "Yeah... well, what can I say. We don't scare that easy."

"Officer... we have information regarding the case," Sam cuts in, the photographs on the table making his stomach twist and turn.

"Oh yeah?" Hamilton's face drops to concerned.

"Yeah. We found this —" Sam takes Liza's pink diary out of his coat pocket but doesn't hand it over. Instead, he puts it down on the table and pulls out a chair. "It's Liza's diary."

Hamilton looks confused, but then interested as he sits down next to Sam and pushes some papers out of the way.

"Where'd you get that?" Hamilton asks, a little taken aback.

All of the other officers and members of the county department hover around the journal. One of them — the sheriff, probably — big burly dude with a 'stache and a brown suit, puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. Sam looks up with his hand still on the book.

"Son, withholding information from county officials is against the law," he drawls, thick voice heavy with condescension.

"That's why I'm showing you," Sam says rather simply, playing the innocent yet smart-mouthed kid card well.

"Where'd you get this?" Hamilton repeats, touching his fingers to the book.

Sam chews on his lip but then opens up the journal. "Liza's friend had it. She gave it to us," he lies, but it seems like a reasonable enough explanation and luckily no one presses.

"In it it states that Liza was having an affair with Daniel," Sam starts, and Dean comes up and leans on the back of the chair Sam's sitting in.

"The stepfather?" Hamilton and the sheriff say at the same time.

Sam nods. "If you read the entries, it states Liza didn't tell anyone about the affair out of fear they wouldn't understand. My brother and I have reason to believe—"

"Woah, woah, slow down there, kid," the sheriff cuts in, placing a thick hand over the journal, closing it shut. "We'll be taking this and you'll be on your way. This is a _murder_ investigation, not a school project. Now, thank you for handing this over. The officials will take it from here."

"Max..." Hamilton cuts in, the voice of reason, calm and gentle.

"No," Sam says resolutely, pulling the journal back in toward himself. "Look, I'm not asking much. I'd just like to be present when you question Mrs. Stephens."

"Mrs. Stephens?" Hamilton shakes his head. "We've already had her in for questioning, she was pretty torn up, but she has an alibi. Her husband said she was out closing a deal with a client. Liza was home alone the night of the murder."

Dean clutches the back of the chair tighter. Sam just shakes his head, brown wispy locks swish-swishing.

"Then when you question her _again_ ," Sam insists.

"This is ridiculous," the Sheriff butts in. "We're not taking orders from a _child._ Jeannie," he presses the speaker box button on the table and leans over. "Please come get these young men out of here."

"Max, please," Hamilton asserts, more forceful this time. "These boys came to help us. I know this is your town but this is my investigation. You knew that coming in to this, when you asked me to help. Now are you going to let me do my job, or not?"

Sheriff Max slowly takes his finger off the button. His eyes lower to the table, the book, but then he backs off.

"Sheriff? Sheriff?" Jeannie's squeaky voice crackles through the box.

Officer Hamilton's gripping glare doesn't let up.

"Nevermind, Jeannie," Sheriff Max tells her.

"Now. Why would you want us to question Mrs. Stephens a second time, Sam?" Hamilton asks.

Sam takes a deep breath and then looks back behind him at Dean briefly, who raises his brows in encouragement.

"My brother and I have reason to believe she has motive," Sam explains. "News of the affair, if it spread, would seriously damage her reputation and harm her business. In one of the entries later on, Liza says she's tired of keeping their relationship a secret. Maybe she planned on exposing the truth to the town, or at least to her friends, and Georgia killed her for it."

Hamilton's nodding and listening, impressed or intrigued. "May I?" He asks, laying a hand on the journal.

Sam swallows and nods.

Hamilton flips through page after page and a few of the other officers huddle around looking, too.

"You've really read this in depth, haven't you?" Hamilton asks Sam as his eyes skim. "Very well. We'll go confront Georgia Stephens about the affair in a bit. If you don't mind, I'd like to look the diary over in more depth for a while before we take any action."

Sam glances up at Dean who just purses his lips and gives a little shrug because they're lucky officer Hamilton is at least cooperating with them at all.

"Okay," Sam agrees, and they leave the officers to it.

 

xxx

 

All Sam can think about while they eat lunch at this small little cafe-diner next to the county office is Georgia Stephens. How she'll look when they confront her about the affair. What she'll say, if she'll try to lie. If Hamilton will believe her lie if she does lie.

He seems to be staring a little too long and too intently at the cup of coffee between his fingers that Dean asks him if he's okay.

"Yeah..." he replies softly, pensively.

"What're you thinking?" Dean asks.

"Just..." Sam shifts. "If this'll all be over."

Dean contemplates. "This one's really hittin' ya hard, huh?"

Sam doesn't know how to explain the feeling to Dean. This feeling of connect, of oneness, of duty. Instead, he nods. He wants it all to be over so they they could get back to things the way they were. Put all of this behind them. He knows Dean must be feeling the same way. Things were all turned upside down.

"Don't worry," Dean consoles and nudges Sam's foot under the table. "Things'll work out."

 

xxx

 

There's a sense of finalization and of determination as the Impala rumbles over gravel behind the police car. Sam sits in silence the whole way to the Stephens' home, jaw tightly shut and hands restlessly fidgeting and clenching. Dean tries to offer up words of reassurance, easy _quit worrying'_ s and _I told ya, it'll be fine'_ s, but Sam's unable to suppress the twisted knot in his stomach and the tremble in his thighs regardless.

 

Dean lets the car door slam as he gets out, following Officer Hamilton's lead up to the front door. It's only when he's up the steps that he realizes Sam's still in the car, unmoving as he stares out over the dash. Dean gestures for him to come on and he eventually does, sluggish and hesitant.

"You okay?" Dean asks Sam as Hamilton rings the bell and they wait. Sam's small face is sulking, he nods unconvincingly.

"I feel weird," he says to Dean, looking down.

"What do you mean? Come on, it'll be fine," Dean gives him a little shove and then Georgia opens the front door.

The smell of blackberry jam and scones wafts through the open door as she stands there with her perfectly-coifed hair and pasty makeup. "Can I help you?" And now that Dean knows she's probably a murderer this whole thing seems questionable, the way her eyes are all wide and her pink pout is pursed and her fingernails look like they were very recently groomed extensively. Dean suddenly feels as uncomfortable as Sam looked earlier.

"Mrs. Stephens, may we come in?" Hamilton asks, nothing in his tone to suggest they were about to accuse her of her own daughter's murder and arrest her if she confessed.

She swallows uncomfortably but then steps aside, waiting for each of them to step through the threshold before closing the door behind them.

"Who are they?" She asks, sizing up Sam and Dean before something seems to register and she addresses Sam. "Oh, yes, I remember you. You were the student journalist." Sam frowns at her. "Well what do you want now? I'm very busy, I've got a lot of work that needs—"

"We won't take up too much of your time, Mrs. Stephens," Hamilton reassures, and then they all sit down on the equally nauseating cushioned couches, white floral patterns to match the curtains and something crocheted thrown over the back.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" She offers half-heartedly, folding her nyloned-legs on the couch.

"No, thank you. Mrs. Stephens, we've uncovered a diary that belonged to Liza," Hamilton cuts right to the chase, pulling the thick pink book from his coat pocket. "Did you know about this?"

She seems to examine it with huge unblinking eyes but then shakes her head. "No, I did not. You trying to tell me my daughter was keeping secrets from me?"

"Perhaps. Mrs. Stephens..." Hamilton opens to a page then places it down on the pristine glass table. "She was having an affair with your husband."

"No," Georgia responds too quickly, suddenly going white as a ghost. "No." She stands, going over to the mantel of the unlit fireplace and clutching on to it. She looks like she's about to pass out, shaking like a leaf, noticeably falling apart.

"Did you know about the affair?" Hamilton asks, shifting to the edge of the couch.

"Of course not!" She jerks around and there are tears in her eyes, welling up and making her eyes all red. She grimaces and spits "Did I know my daughter was a little slut?! Of course not!!"

Hamilton stands, looks disgusted or confused. "Georgia, please..."

Her face gets all screwed up, ugly scowl making her lipstick smudge at the corners. "Why did you come here, huh? Why don't you just leave!"

"We came because you have motive, Georgia!" Hamilton starts to raise his voice to meet hers. "Something like this if it got out would destroy your reputation, your family."

She comes at them, eyes bulging deliriously. "Get out or else—"

"Or else what?!" A shout louder than anything else comes booming from behind them. Sam's finally standing, taking deliberate steps right for Georgia Stephens, backing her into the mantel. "Huh? You gonna kill them too?!"

He's so loud, almost like he can't hear himself, and Dean briefly exchanges a look with Hamilton but Sam keeps going, voice all strained and forced and shaking but ringing with conviction. Dean's tiny _Sam_ gets lost in his voice, in his pitchy screeching allegations. The air starts to buzz, this heavy sound like someone just hit a gong, vibrating and pulsing.

"You gonna kill them like you killed me?! Huh?!" Sam's got Georgia against the mantel, his hand closing around her throat.

 _Sam!_ Hamilton tries to reach out to him but that gets lost too, just bounces right off and now Georgia's sobbing, screaming and shaking hysterically but she's not pushing him away. It's like she can't, like she's too frail. Doesn't stand a chance. She's cowering and she's weak and she's closing her eyes.

"How's it feel, mom?! Huh?!" Sam's fist closes tighter around Georgia's neck so that she starts to choke. "How's it feel to be gettin' what you gave to me?! You killed me, mom, you killed me!"

"Liza, I'm sorry!!!!" Georgia screams, all slobbery pleading and makeup pouring down her face, and that's when Sam loosens his grip finally. "I'm sorry......"

Sam stumbles back, limbs threatening to give out as he almost topples over the arm rest of the corner chair.

"Sam!" Dean goes to catch him, and somewhere in the midst of everything Hamilton is cuffing Georgia and she's still trying to apologize, weeping mindlessly as Hamilton gives her her Miranda rights.

 

Sam's shaking uncontrollably, clutching on to Dean. His arms and legs have just about given out, like they've been used up; horribly traumatized.

He felt her like a physical thing. _With_ him, using his body and his voice like a puppet on strings and it was easily the most terrifying thing he's ever experienced.

The tips of his fingers root into Dean's back, his heart practically fluttering it's beating so fast.

Vaguely, he opens his eyes and over Dean's shoulder sees a window, light but not bright enough to hurt his eyes, and a figure standing in front of it. Long, flowing red locks move aside to reveal soft, rosy cheeks and a gentle, natural smile. She's hazy, like a projection, there but not there, Sam's ears have blocked out every sound in the room; if it even is a room, he's not sure anymore, but she's so lovely. So _light_ and so lovely. She looks pristine, too, like a doll, everything about her clean and perfect. Her head gives a nod, _thank you_ mouths her lips, and then she turns back to face the light. She doesn't walk into it, but instead kind of _disintegrates_ into it, her form breaking off into ten thousand little fragments giving off their own individual light, like sparkles or snow. They slowly disappear from sight as sounds start to come back, the window dims down again and Dean's arms support him and stroke his back. He says _you're okay, I gotcha,_ over and over and Sam shuts his eyes again and lets his face press deeper into Dean's shoulder. He just holds on and comes back to things, physical things like Dean's heartbeat, his breath, his body, the four walls of the room, and he sighs deeply because he knows that it's all over.

 

xxx

 

They're outside of the Stephens home; half the town's around it, too, somehow heard of the news, curiously standing by or peaking out of their homes. Hamilton took Georgia to the station minutes before all of the commotion started, drove her off cuffed in metal with black streams still flowing down her cheeks. Various cop cars clutter the driveway, officers dodging countless questions from pushy members of the press. Sam's sitting on the bumper of the Impala wrapped in a blanket that Sheriff Max gave him, shoulder-to-shoulder with Dean, who just got done using the Stephens' phone to call Dad.

"You okay?" Dean asks him, nudging his shoulder a little.

Sam looks up at Dean and nods, small smile making his eyes glint. "Yeah, Dean. I'm good."

"Whenever you're ready to talk about what happened, man, you know I've always got a listening ear."

"I know," Sam nods, reassured. He doesn't know when (if ever) he's going to be ready to talk about it, but just knowing Dean would be there makes him flood with warmth that's not just from the blanket and smile a genuine, grateful smile.

"Good."

"Just... Don't tell Dad about this, alright? I don't want him to worry," Sam says. "He's got enough on his plate."

Dean looks slightly confused, but eventually complies.

 

Of course Dad wants to know exactly what happened the moment he gets there and sees his sons all shaken up. Dean explains their findings in the diary and Georgia's confession, leaving out a few _minor_ details, which seems to satisfy John for the most part. He even seems proud, clapping the two of them on the back for a job well done. He couldn't, of course, believe the affair between a married man and his step-daughter, but that's typical anyway.

 

They're on the road again as soon as things settle down in Ashwood, packing the Impala with each of their duffles as John thanks Craig Bayer from the hotel for everything. Officer Hamilton shows up just as they're shutting the trunk to thank the boys. He pulls Sam aside and asks him how he's doing.

And when they get into the car, drive off, bound for another red-marked town on the map; and he and Dean slump in the backseat and cross their pinky fingers over one another— Sam's good. Really good. For the first time in a long time.


End file.
